


Down Mars

by Nedrika



Category: Ben-Hur (1959)
Genre: Antagonism, Enemies to Lovers, Fuck thy enemy, M/M, Post-Canon, Somewhat of a redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nedrika/pseuds/Nedrika
Summary: After the crash Messala doesn't die, and he finds himself lost and returning to the fragments of his old and trampled life.
Relationships: Judah/Messala (Ben-Hur)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Down Mars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> This film and its gayness was the subject of the only film studies class I ever attended, and watching it back its hilarious how often they say each other's names. Its unending!

Messala only had vague memories of his meeting with Judah when he came back around. Every part of him burned and the surgeon was hovering over him, too close to his face, but his arms were too weak to push him away. 

"My legs?" he said in a cracked whisper, and the man sighed and began to meddle with the instruments on the table, clanking intolerably loud. 

"You passed out, and for a moment it looked to be too late. Your body needs to be strong in order to survive the procedure, but now that you're awake we need to act fast before the blood turns."

The words came to him slowly and devoid of meaning, but when he finally understood he struggled himself onto his elbows as the world slid sideways.

"How long has it been?"

"Some hours by now, it's the middle of the afternoon."

"Where's Judah?" 

The surgeon paused in his knife sharpening to look at him, gormless ignorance loud in his slack jaw. 

"Ben-Hur?"

There was only an inane shrug back at him and the frustration ripped through him, but before he could dig through the gruel of his mind to find a reprimand Drusus spoke up from the shadows in the corner of the room.

"Sir, Judah, the younger Arrius, has been seen at Calvary watching the executions."

"Bring me to him," he ground out.

"Tribune, you aren't strong enough," the doctor piped up again, Drusus coming up next to him. "We don't have much time if we are to save-"

He cut himself short before Messala could do it for him. 

"I'm still your commander; bring me to Calvary."

The surgeon looked as though he still wanted to speak, but Drusus ushered over a detail and soon enough a litter was organised for him. Moving his shattered body onto it was agony beyond comparison, every inch of his body through to his marrow screaming, and then the convulsions came as he was inched out around the sprawling, cobbled streets to the execution mounds: the circus being directly across the city also meant crowds that were not about to avoid an unannounced and unadorned litter.

It was worth every jar and tearing ache. With every step towards the hill he came a step closer to him; to seeing the broken mess of a man reeling from his reconciliation with his leprous family, gone to watch a slow death out of desolation. He would accept his own death gladly if he could still see the shell of a man he'd be leaving behind in a draw; years after Judah had cast him aside like a broken toy he would finally have succeeded in crushing him in retaliation and giving himself peace.

When they finally arrived at the hill the crowd was dissipating, and the ungainly litter wove its way through the adverse traffic slowly. He'd ordered the curtain lifted to peer through the blood in his eyes into the mass of faces, but it was instead a sound that drew his attention. 

Judah, laughing.

It should only have been possible as a faded memory, but when he finally eased his protesting frame around to face it there could be no other, and Messala's entire world fell into pieces underneath him.

There he was, smiling without a care in the world, and beside him walked his mother and sister. They stood straight, skin unmarred and their eyes with an unmistakable hope. Hot condemnation tore through him at Drusus's deception, but they did indeed wear the dusky rags of the Valley of the Lepers and their hands were held out to stare at as though observing fingers long lost. 

He scrabbled at the edge of the litter to pull himself closer, a moth to his legacy burning into ash. The rain was bitter on his skin as he ached his way out of the linen covers, cold enough to numb his ripped skin as he narrowed his focus onto their bright faces, as happy as they had been that day he'd returned from Rome a lifetime ago. It was over; he'd utterly lost. He slumped back into the litter's cushions, barked for them to return and then let his pain and exhaustion claim him.

He wasn't woken by the surgeon, as he had expected, but instead by the choir of birds in the courtyard outside. The surgeon was by his side in an instant, and he was assailed by a barrage of comments and technical jargon that he quieted with a flick of his hand. It didn't hurt to move, and that brought him back into consciousness in an instant. The aches that spread through his body, like those after a cramp, were nothing compared to what there had been the day before, and once he hauled himself onto protesting shoulders he had a good view of both his legs, scabbed and scratched and stitched but unmistakably whole.

"How did this happen?" he croaked at the cowed doctor, his vocal cords as abused as they had been before.

"I don't have an explanation, tribune; this is no medicine of mine. You arrived back here like this yesterday, I... it must have been the blessing of Apollo that saved you."

He slumped back with a growl, blinking at the familiar ceiling of his own quarters. 

"Leave me," he said, the awful realisation settling heavy over him.

It had been the cult's rabbi that had been crucified at Calvary the day before, and he'd seen Miriam and Tirzah, cured of their leprosy, walking under the same rain that had fallen on him those few seconds before he sheltered himself again. The Jews had spoken of a Messiah since he was a child.

Not only had Judah survived the full force of his wrath, but in the process he'd been presented with the prophesied saviour of all Judea. It was a final slap in the face, and when he'd laughed until his throat would make no more sound he curled into himself and let the tears sting the wounds of his face.

Hours passed before he had control of himself again, enough to drag himself out into the villa and catch the attention of a slave to bathe and clothe him. It was a slow process, and no quicker was his half-staggered journey to meet Pilate. He was given a cool reception, and there was no hint of resistance when he gave up the tribuneship that he'd dedicated himself to since he'd left this country and everyone in it at fourteen. It was a stark reminder of how his fortunes had turned in the space of mere weeks. 

Then he forced himself into the city to sell all his assets, scrounging for every talent he could to pay the sheikh. There was an overwhelming apathy that hollowed him out, as intense as the drive that had pushed him before, and it vied with the shame that dogged him from the very public loss he'd suffered in his chariot.

He had nothing any more. Nothing except Judah, the ghost that had haunted him reincarnated.

He hadn't been inside the Hur household for all the years it had stood empty, determined to leave those happy memories far behind him. From the occasional glimpse he got on the parade route he'd watched it slide into disrepair with a sharp, momentary satisfaction that slipped out of his mind almost as soon as it was out of his sight. Now he could take in the broken glass and stained limewash but his emptiness robbed him of enjoying the ruination. 

A movement caught his eye, and he turned to see Judah coming down the steps of his childhood home, motioning behind him for his unseen family to remain behind. If they thought he'd brought his crumbling body all the way across the upper city for retribution they were in for a surprise; his arm wouldn't even raise far enough to throw a javelin. That didn't stop him considering throwing down the gauntlet as he watched him cautiously approach, but there was no point.

"Why are you here, Messala?" Judah asked him, stopping just short of an arm's length away. "Are you here to continue your race? When I saw you yesterday you were..."

He trailed off, his gaze intense as it roved over the welts, bruises and crude stitches that made him up.

"I followed you to Calvary yesterday," he said, faltering in turn, but Judah only nodded. 

"You saw him."

Messala gave a bark of hollow laughter.

"So the king of the Jews has claimed fealty from their prince, has he?" 

Before he could receive an answer a door in the courtyard swung shut and the slave, Esther, appeared at Judah's shoulder to glare him down. Her arms were full of bundled belongings and her clothing rough-wearing: They were getting ready to leave. 

"Surely you have better things to do than trespass in old ruins?" she asked him, her voice clipped. "Rome's work is unending in Judea."

The spite should have been reinvigorating but it did little more than irritate his tired nerves.

"Rome has finished with me; it has no use for a bankrupt who took a scythed chariot into a race, and then lost to boot. I will never rise above tribune, and even that I've let go."

"Come with us," Judah asked after a pause, his face open and hopeful.

"Judah," Esther pleaded, a hand reaching out for his arm but he turned to her.

"You said yourself to do good," he murmured, some hidden meaning lost to Messala, but she bent her gaze to the mosaic and bit her tongue.

"You ask me to go out into the desert and turn my back to you? I may have lost my standing but I'm no fool." 

"You have nothing to fear from me, or any of the others. We need to change our own hearts, and then convince Rome to do the same, not take up arms. You were different yourself, once, and but there is still a chance for you to change."

It burned to hear the echo of how they had been before in his words, and it at last woke some of his old venom.

"You've seen Rome, Judah; you've felt the blessings of a consul, taken pride of place to witness the majesty and power of a triumphal march. How could you not understand why I didn't want you to fight it, why we should have worked together, with each other and that power?"

At his raised voice Esther grabbed Judah's arm to confront the threat, but he only smiled and put his ringed hand over hers.

"I understand your belief in Rome, but even after seeing it I still don't agree with you."

"And if I come along with you and listen to this dead radical's teaching's I'll understand you?"

There was pity in Judah's eyes, and he hated it.

"I can't promise anything, Messala, but I think you could learn from his teachings."

He'd turned and left, anger sealing his lips and itching at his feet.

In the end it was morbid curiosity mixed with his own dire prospects that drew him into the scattered crowds arranged along the hills around Jerusalem, after weeks of lingering in Roman spaces that had lost all lustre.

He was one of many battered people carrying a single pack with them into the scrub, and he was glad of his torn up face that nobody would recognise the former beacon of Rome's power. At first he made no attempt to seek out the Hurs, instead wandering through the masses in an attempt to understand whether this cult he was about to sink himself into was dangerous, to himself or to the Empire, but all he saw was celebration for their lost leader they claimed had returned, their happiness stinging as a reminder of his own misery. 

It was several days of quiet observation before he caught sight of Judah as he bent to administer alms to one of the downtrodden, the tenderness he remembered from their youth playing out in front of him. Even after everything he'd put him through it hadn't been suffocated.

He turned away, spite and envy roiling in his gut.

Late the next day he made his way over to their little group. Judah seemed happy to see him this time, which only added to his sullen mood. They walked together to the well in an awkward and prickly silence - at least on his side - as the others talked over his sudden appearance. They said little to him when they reappeared, a pattern which continued into the days beyond, the fear still visible in their faces whenever they did attempt conversation. Simonides would most often approach him in small talk that he would refuse to engage in, Malluch standing eternal guard at his shoulder. Esther said nothing at all if she could avoid it; his memories of her were vague, but he noticed how often Judah went to her. 

Their reactions mattered little to him. For all that he was listening to their preachers, trying to fill the void with understanding, the urge to apologise to them never materialised. Their miraculous survival contrasted starkly against his scarred face and hobbling gait, and there was nothing that grovelling would do to heal the years between them.

He still didn't believe in the teachings of the sermons, or the Messiah who's apparent miracle had saved his legs. The pantheon had always been very much a background factor in his life but he kept up his routine of worship every morning, privately and away from the body of the group. He was never asked whether he had converted, but the hope never left Judah's face every time they walked together back from the preachers, conversation stilted and carefully chosen to avoid caltrops. 

Several weeks into their strange shared existence, Esther approached him as he came inching back from his impromptu altar.

"Messala," she said coolly.

"Greetings," he returned, crossing his arms.

"I want to talk to you about Judah."

He was almost surprised that he was the topic she'd chosen from the myriad reasons she had to pick a fight.

"I've seen the two of you walking together; how he defers to you and tries to lead you into the fold. I know he's intent on showing you our way, and that its important to him. I can't take it from him, but I also will not stay to watch it happen. I've tried to forgive you and stay true to what I believe, but what you did to me, to all of us - its too much and I haven't been able to yet. Every time I see you I see my father and all the people I loved suffering; all people you destroyed in cruel, evil ways for sport. I think of all the good you have taken from the world."

"I won't apologise to you," he said, slow and careful, his pride straining in every word. "I never will."

She stood still and composed even as her eyes chilled to ice. 

"I know. Every day I see you it tests my resolve, and I have to remove the temptation. There is a congregation leaving soon to spread the word; I have spoken to my father and Malluch, and we will leave with them. I won't ask Miriam and Tirzah to join us; they don't need us to live any more."

"What about Judah?"

Her shoulders dropped a fraction and her voice lost its glass edge.

"I thought, for a moment, even after... the past is too large in his mind, it drives out all else, and his past is you. He promised me something, once, but it was impossible then and is no less now; its only that I've finally accepted how it is. He would never marry a woman other than me, and he will never look at me while you are around."

She sighed, and turned to go.

"I will only ask one thing of you, Messala, in return for all the hurt you have given me. If he ever offers you a ring, do not take it."

"I need no trinket from him," he said, lifting his chin. 

She seemed to be satisfied with that, nodded, and as she made her way back down the hillside with her shoulders set and head high he let the conversation settle through his skin.

The implication that Judah was still interested in him as he had been in the far-gone past was frustrating to the point his blood near boiled, oozing into the long-simmering pool of his frustrations at the sermons he had been striving and failing to understand, and the constant tension of their group; he boiled over and found himself storming off to confront him.

He was in the battered lean-to they'd built into the hillside to shade his mother, leaning over a griddle that he set aside as he heard the stomp of boots and swish of curtain.

"This cult is ludicrous, Judah," he snapped as soon as he made it inside, picking the easiest fight. "I don't understand why you would subject yourself to it; Rome will never fall to this!"

"Messala," was all he said in return, and he railed against the passivity again, hoping that he would be answered in anger to relieve himself of this tension. 

"This weakness and forgiveness is only ever a parasite to power, rather than challenging on it's own level! You'll sap the Empire until the Judea's passed around for scrap."

"You've seen for yourself the difference it can make. After all, it was this forgiveness that returned your legs to you," Judah replied, still infuriatingly calm. "It was this strength that brought back the dead and cured the diseased."

"Your god's miracles don't negate the victories of Mars, Jupiter, or Neptune. It doesn't make the Jews free from the power given to the Romans."

Judah circled the room towards him, palms outstretched.

"There are different ways of looking at power. Love can work through subtler means, and have a far stronger influence than valour or force."

He snapped.

"Don't talk to me about the strength of love! I know too well the hold it can have over someone, and we both felt the destruction it wrought." The strength left his wrecked legs and he leant heavily against a post. "It's still destroying me."

Judah paused at that, looking at him more keenly through the thin pine smoke of the fire.

"Even now?" he asked quietly.

"Always, Judah," he said, looking him straight in the eye. "Everything you've won from me kills me more every day, but the worst is seeing you so at peace with it. The good death for me was back in the circus, broken and bleeding but safe in the knowledge that you suffered on without me, in the ruins of the life I left you."

Judah recoiled at his speech, which only spurred him on to his own destruction.

"Did you think the love I had for you was so weak as to die? It soured in me, poisoning me for years even when you should have been dead and rotting on the sea bed. It only slowed its venom since then."

"Our argument was never about us, it was about so much more than us," Judah said, rattled at last.

"I spent most of my life on foreign shores, thinking about how I would return and we'd work together to make Judea better. You spurned me and all of those years when you spurned Rome, and you did it easily," he spat.

"It was far from easy, Messala; you asked me to throw my own people to the dogs rather than trust in me to talk them round! You asked for too much, too fast when I could want nothing better than our continued peace."

"Those last traitors would never have agreed to any proposal I could offer and you know that, and they would never have listened to you. You chose to make me look a fool, taking their side even though we were known to be close. You gave us no chance! And now you claim love is what we need to work together for the future, when I thought that was what we had before."

He was shaking from the emotion of it, curling forward to spit the words out. His mind, the eternal traitor, whispered to him of the misery of unrequited love.

"We're both so different from how we were back then, Messala," Judah said, and he sounded strangled. "Haven't we both seen enough, lost enough to compromise? You know the hope on the faces of people here when they speak, and how fast they arrive; is it so impossible that something could happen here? A changing at the core of Rome to make it better and more tolerant of all those in it, an empire that can love its enemies."

"Show me this great love of yours," he said, with as much spite as he could muster.

Judah crossed the little shelter in a few long strides to catch his chin in a brush of mouths, and Messala instantly hauled their bodies flush to press the kiss back and slide his tongue between easily parted lips. They fell to the floor, seams tearing in his haste as he stripped them, ducking back to his mouth as soon as he left. They had little oil and Messala had no patience, so the preparation they took was short and lacking; he told Judah that he was lucky for even that and was rewarded with a knowing, kind look that made him curl his fingers to wipe it from his face.

Judah took everything he threw at him, matching every punishing thrust with soft touches to his face, all the taunts with gentle encouragement and warnings for his old wounds. It only fuelled his lust and greed, taking pleasure from a body that lay pliant to his will, the long-sought face of his one-time lover looking up at him with something near adoration as he picked out the childhood scars from the rest with lingering touches, mouthing his name before arching and painting his own chest. Messala took his own climax from a warm and pliant body that welcomed it.

They were both panting hard as he slid out, and on a whim he dabbed a finger to the spill and brought it to his tongue.

"It still tastes the same, if this is what your love is," he sneered, looking along the lax form before him.

"You'll see. In time." 

And after a while, he did.

The softness with which Judah accepted him every night gentled his own passions by small degrees, dragging him back to the sweetness they'd shared before, even without his recognising it, while during the day he found himself opening up to the vehemence of the speakers and the easy given warmth of the people it brought with it. He clung to his spite for as long as he could but it was given no target, and without a use it instead leached out to leave him without edges. 

There was little of his old self that was recognisable any more; his form remained twisted and scarred while the crushing of his drive and achievements had left him aimless and malleable. Without the fury he had only the last scraps of pride that Judah now worked to maintain with a loose and less pugilant mirror of their old camaraderie that he came to treasure. He was of no threat to anyone, so Miriam and Tirzah approached him once more with promises that they had forgotten everything that had happened between them. They all knew that it was far from true, and he tried to keep the bitterness from them at the charade, but it was better than them skulking around the corner of his vision like he was from the Valley instead of them.

As the congregation roamed through the lands he watched how the pantheon warped and moulded themselves to the local traditions and beliefs and wondered if people could be as plastic as the gods. Years before he had believed in fighting ideas with other ideas; perhaps this movement would be the third option that they could never have considered before, mixing the edges of the two cultures rather than grinding one down. Whether fellowship and open hearts would be of better service to Rome than fear and power he couldn't tell, but then it was no longer his place to decide.

In time Judah would come to sit with him at his morning prayers and he would watch Judah's nightly prayer in return. They would clamber into their bedroll and Messala would hold him, gentle thrusts and kisses as soft as they had been in youth but tinged with a sadness that had soaked into their bones. Sometimes Judah would be overcome in the middle of the night with nightmares of his oar or crippling leprosy, and he would hold him tight and press his mouth to the salted waves of his hair to whisper his apologies as a mantra to lull him back to rest. More often as time passed they would wake in each others arms, well rested and safe to step into the quiet dawn of Judea.

It wasn't peace, but perhaps it could be; peace he hadn't felt since he was a child playing in the garden of Hur.

**Author's Note:**

> A very merry heck off Chuck to you!


End file.
